


These Lovely Faces

by TheMalapert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bitchy Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Identity Porn, Jaskier would do Geralt in a heartbeat, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, but Geralt doesn’t KNOW that, so slight dubcon, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalapert/pseuds/TheMalapert
Summary: Geralt accepts a day in a new skin as payment for a job, looking to do what he seemly can’t in his Witcher’s body - Jaskier.It, of course, gets him in trouble.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 278





	These Lovely Faces

Witchers didn’t take payment other than coin. Geralt rarely had issues with that unspoken rule. Occasionally he’d take a room at an inn or a hot meal, but that was as good as silvers. This, though? Vesemir would have his hide. 

Geralt kept his swords hidden underneath Roach’s tack, his medallion buried in her saddlebags. The curly bangs felt odd against his forehead, and though he still had every heightened sense, he knew his eyes no longer glinted in a cat’s gold. He’d turned it down, initially. The mage was dirt poor and fleeing the local lord with his loving flock of sheep when the cockatrice found him. Geralt had barely gotten in between them in time to save the herd, but it seemed all the man wanted to talk about. Geralt might have accepted a sheep. He could sell it in town on top of the cockatrice bounty. But the mage wouldn’t part with a single one. When he started listing the names of each, he sounded eerily similar to a certain bard. 

Then he offered a day in a new skin. Not a glamor—nothing so superficial. The mage would _convince,_ more or less, Geralt’s body that it was other than it usually appeared. Geralt would be able to do whatever he wanted until midnight. Woo a young maiden. Have a drink with the locals. Swindle arm wrestlers. Anything he wanted! 

Geralt was going to say no, but he was a weak man with a weak heart that wanted so much more than he could give. He thought that maybe he could be one of those strapping locals that caught someone’s eye across the tavern. Uncomplicated pleasure for one night. The problem was that there was only one person he’d care to seduce like that. Unburdened from his gruesome purpose, maybe closer to how he would have been if he hadn’t been taken to Kaer Morhen. Especially with winter coming on, when Geralt would make his lonely trek up the mountains. The name stuck in his throat, preventing him from declining the wizard’s offer once again. 

He had until midnight. 

The sun was just setting when he made it into town. The mage had given him some clothes to blend in. Regular earthen colors one might find in a simple farmer. They were a little tight. What was with mages and conjuring his sizes incorrectly? Every step he took into town felt like another step towards his own damnation, but a Witcher was nothing if not already damned. Curiosity and an itching need drove him to the tavern where he knew Jaskier was playing. 

Nobody turned when he entered. In fact, no one even noticed. A shot of adrenaline twisted his stomach in a way that was almost pleasant. He ordered a beer and payed half what he usually did, and he turned to survey the tavern. 

Jaskier was just getting started. He’d dragged a chair over to a corner with no table, and he was sitting, crooning through some old love song. Geralt knew by the end of the night, his bard would be knocking over the chair, waltzing through the tables, doublet undone and bangs sticking to his forehead. Geralt had a ranking of how he liked to see Jaskier, and coming off a performance high was number three. The tavern was slowly filling, many of the tables already taken. Geralt started to go for his usual—dark, brooding corner—when he realized he didn’t have to. 

He couldn’t wade into the middle of it; he was still a Witcher after all. He took a skinny table against the wall, closer to Jaskier than ever. The bard glanced up at his arrival with an open smile that made Geralt stub his toe, sloshing his ale. 

Jaskier blushed and tilted his head down, blinking coquettishly from under those long lashes as he sang. 

Geralt quickly reworked his ranking to include this look in the top ten. 

One of the tavern girls actually came over and asked if he wanted something to eat, a similar look about her eyes. Geralt knew what being on the end of flirtations was like, but it was always from people who were strong and sure—of themselves or their ability to hex his balls off. A few mages came to mind. This girl was barely pushing eighteen, the straps on her over-dress hastily let out to accommodate the sudden blossoming of youthful breasts. She was _blushing._

Geralt gave her a smile and asked for his usual meal. When she scurried off, Jaskier gave him an encouraging wink. It was his turn to blush, and now, he knew it made it to his human’s face.

The evening was just… pleasant. All around. He listened to the townspeople’s quotidian affairs; most of the conversations were things that people wouldn’t dream of discussing in the same room as a Witcher. Upcoming births and new trade prospects. A group of mothers nursing around a large table discussed how well their babies could latch on. The stablehand and a gardener’s apprentice had their heads together sussing out the best way to approach the girls they fancied. And above it all, Jaskier’s bright, theatrical voice singing any song the people requested. 

Geralt was not a purveyor of the arts, but Jaskier’s voice was pleasing. The technique was good enough not to be grating against his sensitive ears. The first few years had been rough, but Jaskier’s voice grew every season into something Geralt found himself missing during winters. It was really the passion that Geralt loved. Jaskier’s voice bent and broke in every right spot, his body twisting with the melody. He sang from his soul. And Geralt knew that if he could ever voice those thoughts, Jaskier might die of surprise. 

He wished he was better at telling the bard what he felt, but it was so much easier to joke and tease. To prod. Incite. No one liked to admit it, but Geralt was good at finding flaws, weaknesses, at reading the shame on a human’s face. He found his skills transferred nicely into friendly banter that sometimes cut too close to the quick. Not so much undying declarations. Those were usually Jaskier’s forte, but in nearly twenty years of travel, Geralt had never seen him mean it. Sure, he’d serenade the stable boy or the Madame at the whorehouse, but those flowery words never actually meant anything too close to real. 

But he meant it when he packed up at every inn and followed Geralt out of town. Geralt just didn’t know—couldn’t tell if—

Ah, fuck it. Geralt was scared. 

That was why he sat in a tavern watching Jaskier with new eyes, smiling when Jaskier caught his gaze, beckoning the bard closer with a hilt of his hips and a well timed lip lick. It wasn’t long before Jaskier commandeered his table, legs swinging to the beat. Geralt sat back with his ale in his hand and enjoyed being on the end of the bard’s wooing. 

He bought Jaskier a drink in between sets. The dinner crowd was dwindling, and on came the hearty drinking crowd and those who heard a bard was in town. Geralt knew how parched Jaskier got, and he preened before the dazzling smile he got in thanks. 

“Your name, good sir, so that I may know who has rescued me from a dry throat,” Jaskier said, leaning back and crossing his legs in a way Geralt mostly saw in brothels. 

“Eric,” Geralt blurted out, and Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. 

“Eric with the eyes mesmeric, left me quite the hysteric,” Jaskier composed. “It’s a hard name to work with, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to change it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You want me to change my name?”

“Or at least tack on a title.” Jaskier traced Geralt’s jaw with a wicked smile. “Eric the Generous, clever and dangerous. Or perhaps Eric the Pretty? Kind and witty. Best damn thighs in the whole damn city.”

“How can you attest to that without taking them out for a ride?” Geralt spread his legs wide in an invitation. He’d often seen Jaskier sprawled in someone’s lap while he performed, but Jaskier’s lips pursed. 

“I’m expecting my companion back tonight,” he hedged. 

Geralt couldn’t exactly guarantee that he wouldn’t interrupt Jaskier’s night—with himself—but he couldn’t lose the bard, so he said, “I can be quick.”

Jaskier blinked twice. 

“I mean—“ Geralt went red, but Jaskier threw his head back and laughed. Geralt hated being laughed at, but he knew Jaskier well enough to know that this was not mean spirited. 

“I don’t know, darling,” Jaskier said and leaned in conspiratorially. “If I took you to bed, I wouldn’t want to rush.”

“I wouldn’t want to either,” Geralt said, finding the truth much easier than suave lies. Jaskier cocked his head and regarded Geralt’s new body with a plaintive, sultry wrinkle to his brow. 

“Come, then.” Jaskier hopped off the table, and Geralt stood. 

“I’d like to.” 

“Oh, hush,” Jaskier tittered as he marched towards the door. 

“I’d like to make you,” Geralt continued, crowding behind Jaskier when the bard paused to yank open the door. Jaskier mewled in the back of his throat, and it was all Geralt could do not to take him right there in the streets. The trek to the inn was spent staring at Jaskier’s ass. 

They crashed into the room, lips locked and hands roaming. Jaskier tugged at Geralt’s clothes but made no concentrated effort, focusing his attention to guiding them to the bed. He happened to glance down at the bed before they tumbled in, and he squeaked. They were already in motion, falling towards the freshly sharpened dagger laid out in the sheets. Jaskier scrambled to brace himself with an arm arched above his head, and Geralt propped himself up with an arm straight out. He gripped Jaskier around the waist, holding him close, bowed like a bridge. 

Everything went still for a moment. Geralt tested letting Jaskier go, finding the bard could support himself for a moment. Geralt reached down and carefully took the dagger. He set it gently on the nightstand. As soon as his hand left metal, Jaskier’s arms flew around his neck, and he was pulled down with a grunt. 

Jaskier giggled into his mouth, and Geralt found himself grinning, laughing as they kissed. 

“Quick reflexes,” Jaskier said. “And you know how to handle a dagger.” His eyebrows pistoned, making the innuendo very obvious. 

“Not a dagger I’m packing,” Geralt rumbled, and Jaskier moaned. His thigh pressed between Geralt’s legs where his cock was steadily filling. 

“Oh, yes I can feel that.” Jaskier fit his cock against the swell of Geralt’s hip, rocking to his own rhythm as they both came to full hardness. 

It was everything Geralt had imagined. Listening to the bard through inn walls, hearing Jaskier moan like a whore in his bedroll during one if his wet dreams, Geralt had thought about this often. Too often. He thought about how they’d fall into bed together, sometimes joking, sometimes intense. He thought about how Jaskier’s body would feel against his, the rough brocade of his dumbass outfits rubbing through Geralt’s clothes. He thought about how Jaskier would look at him, lust-blown eyes dark and wanting, how Jaskier would undo his doublet slowly as he watched, rolling his hips down onto that thick traveller’s thigh. How, with the doublet gone, Geralt would splay his hands underneath the tease of a chemise, lifting it over Jaskier’s head to fully reveal that hairy chest he’d seen a thousand times but never allowed himself to _look._ He thought about it all, except—

“Oh, _Eric,”_ Jaskier sighed as Geralt peppered kisses down his throat. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said and not in a sexy way. He pulled back to look at Jaskier, at those desperate, pleading eyes. “Fuck.”

Geralt pulled away. He turned, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Jaskier. This was all kinds of fucked up. Geralt liked to think he wasn’t the monster people thought, wasn’t the same man that whores saw and stank of fear. But here he was, touching his _best friend_ without his full consent. Jaskier didn’t consent to Geralt, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken. He consented to Eric, the small town nobody he wouldn’t have to see after this. 

“I know that look,” Jaskier mused, and Geralt tensed like a caught animal. Had some of his mannerisms leaked through? Did Jaskier know him so well? “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

Geralt let out a humorless laugh, saying, “Yeah, sort of.”

Jaskier shifted to sit next to him, still showing off that delectable chest, and Geralt breathed through his mouth to dispel the scent of sex and his bard. 

“I get it. I was like that at first too,” Jaskier said, casually, but Geralt knew him well enough to hear the weight behind it. “The good news is, you’ll get over it in approximately a year and a half. Give or take depending on how much of a slut you are, so probably give yourself a little longer. Then you’ll be able to fuck people without it eating at you like that.”

Jaskier patted Geralt’s knee, and Geralt swallowed thickly. 

“You’ll still say their name in bed sometimes, and if they have really good hearing, you’ll have to make sure you muffle yourself when they’re around.” Jaskier shrugged. Geralt’s brow furrowed, mind turning sluggishly around that statement. 

“They listen to you fuck?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier barked out a laugh, giving him a guilty look. “Is it bad if I say I hope so? No, but it’s not his fault; he can’t help it, probably. You know that companion I mentioned earlier? He’s a… he has naturally really good hearing.”

“Your companion?” Geralt said, not comprehending. It was like having two black dots on a blank sheet of paper, but he still couldn’t connect them. 

“Oh yeah, been head over heels for him since he punched me in the gut after knowing me fifteen minutes,” Jaskier said breezily. 

Geralt’s world spun, but Jaskier seemed oblivious to his distress. 

“I’ve been travelling with him for some time now. Years. That sharpness fades away after a while, and it gets just… nice. I just get to enjoy being in love with him. You sound like you’re still in the early stages, eh? Pining, brooding. It hurts to be so near and yet so far kind of stuff?” Jaskier read him like an open book, like he always did, and Geralt felt a spark of irritation. Why hadn’t he gotten to that niceness yet? That ache usually subsided in the day, in the winter when he had other things to do, but there were some nights Geralt wanted to touch the coals of their waning fire to escape the yawning _need_ inside him. 

“Does it still happen to you sometimes? That sharpness?” Geralt asked, shoulders hunched. 

“Oh, of course, darling,” Jaskier said softly. His eyes trailed over the floor, looking somewhere past the stained wooden slats. “There was a moment this last week. We’d met up again after a barding competition I did, and he caught up to me on the road on his big, pretty horse, and he acted like we didn’t know each other. ‘What’s a bard like you doing on a road like this?’ He said to me. Then he insulted my survival capabilities, as usual, and my wardrobe. But before that, he had this look about him. Like he was happy to see me.”

Geralt’s mouth almost ruined his disguise because he nearly snarled _you didn’t tell me you were off to a competition._ Jaskier had just said he had a new doublet or some such to pick up in the city, and Geralt steadfastly avoided places that made him want to tongue a grave hag just for something to focus on. But Geralt didn’t like the thought of Jaskier hiding it from him.

“He not an arts kind of man?” Geralt decided to ask, and Jaskier shook his head. 

“He likes the arts fine. It’s me,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt’s head tilted. “You didn’t want him to come along? Is he rude to you? Does he insult your singing?”

Geralt didn’t know how he could get so worked up over someone treating Jaskier poorly when that someone was _him._ Listening to Jaskier tell a complete stranger things he didn’t even tell Geralt… it put things in perspective, to say the least. 

“Well, yes actually,” Jaskier laughed. “Only because he knows it gets to me. He once called my voice a fillingless pie, and let me tell you—the hysterics were legendary. It was hard to keep the jokes to myself though.”

“What jokes?” Geralt’s lip twitched at the mention of the djinn incident. Legendary indeed. 

“Oh, the usual. Don’t you wanna be my filling? I’d let you fill my pie. Stuff like that,” Jaskier said, and a blush crept up his neck. 

And now Geralt was thinking about it. Did he mean his mouth? Geralt had many fantasies about coming all over that silver tongue, fucking Jaskier’s throat and then listening to the bard perform hoarse. He had other fantasies about coming up the bard’s ass. Jaskier, dripping with him, with his scent. _Filling_ Jaskier to the brim, until he’d never get out Geralt’s smell, until he didn’t want anyone else. His cock twitched where it had flagged during their conversation. Jaskier didn’t miss it, of course, and he soothed a hand over Geralt’s thigh. 

“You could pretend, if it would help. You’ll find no judgement here. Or you could just close your eyes and let me take care of you, no reciprocation necessary,” Jaskier offered. His palm reached down to rub Geralt’s length, and Geralt groaned. 

“Keep telling me about him,” Geralt said, and Jaskier formed his fingers around the stiff outline. 

“He’s good with a dagger, too. Good with a sword. Somewhat of a mercenary, and when I get to see him fight, it makes me so hot. All I want is to turn around and have him take me against a tree, covered in blood and guts.” Jaskier worked open Geralt’s trousers and pulled out his cock. “Tell me about him. Yours.”

“Mine,” Geralt breathed, letting his head fall back. Jaskier licked over his palm and rubbed the wetness over the tip of Geralt’s cock. 

“What do you like?”

Geralt’s head rolled to the side, eyes peeking open to find Jaskier blushing and biting the inside of his lip. “I like his… hair. And his eyes. Fuck, his voice. I love it all. _Fuck,_ I love him so much.”

Jaskier’s hand pumped and twisted, sinfully good at this. Geralt was hurtling towards the edge faster than any whore could get him. His hand landed on Jaskier’s shoulder, feeling the muscles move, and then he pushed up to tangle his fingers at Jaskier’s nape. The bard moaned, a short, cut-off thing in the back of his throat, and Geralt tugged, earning another. Just as Geralt started pulling in near-gasping breaths, Jaskier’s hand slowed, forming up around the crown to thumb over his freshly slicked slit. 

“Don’t stop,” Geralt pleaded, and Jaskier smirked at him, the kind that Geralt knew meant trouble. 

“This is what it feels like, isn’t it? Having him near but never telling him how you feel?” Jaskier dragged the precome down Geralt’s shaft with a languid stroke. “Why can’t you tell him?”

Jaskier formed up tight around the base, fingers easing down to tease his balls. It was just hands, but Geralt thought he might go insane. He jacked himself off with atrocious efficiency, usually listening to the bard’s steady breathing across the fire, so of course it would be Jaskier to push him to the brink with a handjob. Such talented fucking hands. 

“Too risky,” Geralt confessed, and Jaskier rewarded him with a slick stroke from base to tip. “Already chased him off once, and I can’t— _ah—_ I can’t do that again.”

“Hmm, I suppose we have a similar issue, but I’m… well, I’m always chasing him away, I suppose,” Jaskier said, and it was unfairly maudlin for how his fingers squelched on Geralt’s cock. 

“You don’t. I’m sure you don’t,” Geralt managed to reply. Jaskier took him to the edge again and snatched that freefall away, fingers stilling, thumbs digging into the sensitive flesh of his groin. 

“He enjoys our time until he doesn’t,” Jaskier said simply. “I learned a long time ago my place at his side is a direct reflection of what he can handle. When times are good, it’s easy, and I think he enjoys my company, but he has to go through his darkness alone. Always alone.”

Geralt grit his teeth. “So he’s fair-weather?”

“Oh, no darling.” Jaskier dropped a kiss to Geralt’s still clothed shoulder absently, as if he wasn’t even thinking about it. “He has saved my life and fed me when I had no coin and taught me everything I know about travel. Think of it more as—well, it’s a kinder word than I deserve, but I’m really just a luxury to him. I’m not for when times are hard. He doesn’t have the energy to waste putting up with me.”

Except that wasn’t true, at least not wholly. When Geralt was turned out of inns, Jaskier could sweet talk their way inside. When jobs were scarce, Jaskier could keep them on the road with his singing. Geralt could admit he’d shut the bard out at some of the more extraordinary points in his life—four days without sleep agonizing over a Child Surprise came to mind. But those were points. Big events, sure, but Geralt could count on one hand the total number of days he’d spent absolutely spiralling beneath Destiny’s heel. Geralt would need a whole village, a whole _country,_ to count the days Jaskier helped him through. 

“He makes my life worth living,” Geralt said, and Jaskier’s lips curved into a smile. 

“Exactly.”

It felt like Jaskier kept him on that edge for hours, at the same time hard himself. When Geralt tried to touch, Jaskier placed his hand firmly on the bed, distracting him with another question about the love of his life. _He gives really good handjobs,_ Geralt wanted to say, but instead he found himself confessing every little thing that made his chest tighten, made his mutant heart beat faster. 

When Jaskier was worried about him, fuck, he loved it. Even when it was about stupid stuff like during the cold months making sure Geralt changed his socks before going to bed. It meant Jaskier _noticed._ When Jaskier watched him as he performed. All those taverns, inns, and brothels, Jaskier always stared him down for at least a whole song, like he was performing just for Geralt. Like Geralt was the only one worth the performance. And when Jaskier stuck up for him in those more bigoted towns… well, Geralt hated that he felt like he had to, hated that it usually put the bard in harm’s way, but it never failed to heat that place in his chest where he was rumored to have a heart. 

All this blurted out in the vague, nameless way they were both dancing around their stories. All this while Jaskier brought him to the edge again and again and again. All this, and Jaskier reciprocated. 

If everything before wasn’t enough, Jaskier started talking about the heroism of his beloved companion. His bravery and goodness. It was one thing to hear it in inaccurate, boastful songs and another thing to hear it with Jaskier’s fingers around his cock. To hear it when Jaskier was confiding in a stranger. That more than anything took him to his peak, and Jaskier couldn’t stop it, didn’t try. He pulled Geralt through his orgasm with sure hands and sweet words in his ear. Geralt turned his head to catch Jaskier’s lips, and they shared an unhurried kiss. When the last of the aftershocks rolled through him, Jaskier’s hand finally stilled. 

They stared at each other, unsure where the night should go. The earlier concerns still scraped at the back of Geralt’s consciousness, but he’d already let Jaskier touch him. He supposed he should return the favor. 

“Why didn’t you want him to go to your bard competition?” Geralt asked, wrapping his hand around where Jaskier’s still gripped his cock, covered in his come. Geralt pulled him off and shifted, reaching around Jaskier so he had an arm on either side. He pushed the bard onto his back to hover over him. 

“Things tend to go sideways when I meddle to take him off his path,” Jaskier breathed. 

And it hurt. 

Geralt whined and claimed Jaskier’s mouth. He manhandled Jaskier onto the bed where he slipped his thigh between the bard’s legs. Jaskier ground down onto it with a mewl. 

“You really do have the best damn thighs in the whole damn city,” Jaskier said, bucking his hips to give those best damn thighs a proper ride. 

_“Jaskier,”_ Geralt groaned. It was all he could say. _“Jaskier, Jaskier.”_

It was a physical sensation when he turned back. 

The clock must have struck twelve, and he felt as though every cell in his body stepped to the side, making room for the real ones to come back. His vision darkened for a moment, and when he blinked back into reality, Jaskier was staring, open-mouthed. 

“You’re not Eric,” he said. 

Geralt groaned and pressed his face into the bedsheets next to the bard’s head. 

“If I tell you the embarrassing story behind that name, will you promise not to be mad?” Geralt asked, a hopeful lilt bringing the end up an octave. 

“It better be a damn good story, Geralt of Rivia!”

…

The Kaer loomed like a gray specter on the mountainside, and yet Jaskier took it in stride as he did all things that perhaps he shouldn’t. He swaggered right into the entrance hall, even going so far as to scold Geralt for tracking in unnecessary amounts of snow. They were the last to make it that year, and Geralt’s brothers came up to the baffling scene of the bard flitting about their most dangerous Witcher like a nag, brushing off stubborn bits of ice before Geralt was allowed to go any further. 

“Finally, the songbird has come home to roost,” Eskel greeted, and Jaskier turned with a warm smile. 

“You must be Eskel. It’s a delight to meet you, but I’m afraid I simply cannot do pleasantries in wet clothes. You understand?” Eskel nodded, taking in the subtle shiver to Jaskier’s frame. The bard bounced once on his heels and started off down the hall. “Now, could someone show me where the good Sir Du Haute-Bellegarde’s quarters are?”

His brothers had no chance, cracking up at the first mention of the name. Geralt grumbled under his breath and picked up their soaked cloaks. Along with his bags, it was a balancing act to also grab their snowy boots, and his brothers made no move to help, grinning like coyotes at his misfortunes. 

“I thought you said no one would ever hear that story?” Eskel prodded, and Geralt sneered. 

“I’m still in the dog house after seducing him with a glamour and tricking him into telling me about how he was in love with me,” Geralt summarized. 

His brothers blinked. 

“Yeah, that would do it,” Eskel said. Lambert punched Geralt in the shoulder. 

“I bet he’s been _real_ mean to you,” Lambert said, fishing for details. 

“Well, you can see I’ve been reduced to his bellhop,” Geralt said. 

“He make you do all the work when you fuck too?” Lambert barely dodged the sopping cloak swung his way. 

“He has been pretty bossy,” Geralt said. His eyes wandered past their faces, lip quirking up. “He’s real… descriptive too. Silver tongue, knows what he wants.”

“Sounds a little bratty to me. You gunna let that stand here? On your turf?” Lambert asked. 

Geralt laughed. “Oh, fuck no. You’ll probably want to bunk down in the South Tower for a few nights ‘cause I plan on making him _beg_ for mercy.”

Jaskier reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed and hip cocked. Geralt raised the mass of boots in his right hand in greeting, and Jaskier’s gaze slipped over the three wolves. He saw how close they all stood, the lightness to their faces. Despite himself, Jaskier’s expression softened, and he leaned against the wall to watch the wolves acquaint themselves. 

Eskel slung a quick hug over Geralt’s wet shoulder—the brotherly tackling would come later—and Lambert clapped him on the back. Before Geralt fully took his leave, he asked under his breath, “Lambert, you still have those silk ropes from when your Cat visited?”

“Sure as fuck do,” Lambert said with a grin. 

“I’ll take your laundry duty for the first month,” Geralt bargained, but Lambert shook his head. 

“You’re gunna let me ask him three questions, no interference,” Lambert said. 

Well, that was going to bite Geralt in the ass, and he almost said no. But then he caught Jaskier biting his lip, a familiar look in his eyes. Geralt thought about how sweet Jaskier would look trussed up with silks in his bed, unable to make his bratty little demands. Only able to suffer whatever pleasure Geralt decided. 

“Deal.”

Geralt joined his bard in the hallway, accepting the peck on the lips that had become ritual since that long talk about their feelings. Geralt had hated every second of it, but the outcome was well worth it. 

“What were you chatting about?” Jaskier asked as Geralt steered them towards his room. 

“You’ll see,” Geralt said, and his bard grinned. 

Definitely worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I just love pretending the boys share a brain cell. Oh and please be assured, Geralt may have paid the price, but Jaskier WILL get his revenge like the petty asshole he is.


End file.
